


Hold my hand, it's getting dark

by WHUMPBBY



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alpha Bruce Wayne, Alpha Damian Wayne, Alpha Dick Grayson, Alpha Tim Drake, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce will have a cow, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Don’t copy to another site, God bless Alfred, Jay is too old for this shit, M/M, Omega Jason Todd, Other, all other Bats are Alphas, but doesn't fuck up as bad as he could, i am coming up with this as we speak, maybe more pairings?, undecided - Freeform, underhanded sex change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-09-26 07:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WHUMPBBY/pseuds/WHUMPBBY
Summary: The thing about being Jason Todd was that there was a clause somewhere in the God’s paperwork that said his life was supposed to be a joke - and every time he managed to forget about that little fact, life did its level best to remind him.***Changed the title. Previously known as: The road to Hell is paved with fuckups ;]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am flying by the seat of my pants on this one. ABO system will come together in time, but so far these are the facts: 
> 
> \- there are fewer omegas than any other designation (their bodies can do stupid stuff like occasionally kill them when subjected to undue stress)  
> \- omegas are not discriminated against openly, but many of their gender-specific needs are overlooked and used against them by callous people  
> \- omegas are usually small-boned and plush (Tim was suspected to be one before his growth spurt and presentation as an Alpha)  
> \- due to that, they're considered fragile and coddled by the higher class and exploited by the criminal element  
> \- heats are more complicated than just 'sex now'  
> \- omegas have an additional set of canines  
> \- Jason had almost no proper socialisation past his resurrection (we go with dug his way out and had brain damage) and has no scent glands/parts of the brain that detect and interpret scents, so he's a fish out of water everywhere he goes
> 
> Hope that helps;]

Jason woke up slowly, with a low key headache splitting his skull and exhaustion crushing him to the mattress. The pain didn’t faze him, usually, he’s had hangovers worse than this before he was even legally allowed to drink, but not in a while.

He struggled into a sitting position, leaning his aching head on the cold wall his mattress was pushed against, and attempted to pull his mind together enough for a quick internal check-up. Benchmarking his physical condition after waking up from sleep was an ingrained habit - an especially useful routine for a vigilante that worked alone and rarely ever had anyone to rely on when it came to patching him up. Especially now, that Roy and Kori were off gallivanting across the neighbouring solar system.

After some poking and prodding, Jason figured that things weren’t that bad: his side was still tender under the dressing, but the rib cracked by a high-velocity meeting with an iron-wrought drainpipe fitting was whole again and the bleeding gash left by the torn edge of his under armour had clotted over sufficiently enough that stitches weren’t necessary, butterfly clips did good enough job of holding him together so far. Good. The side should be fragile for a couple hours - accelerated healing factor or not, - so it was best to leave his torso bound.

What didn't add up was the exhaustion. Jason felt as if his bones were made of lead and someone had stuffed his head with wet wool; a sort of all-encompassing tiredness that couldn't really be explained by taking a bit of a beating, not after so many hours of sleep.

And he was hungry. God, he was so hungry that he actually felt nauseous.

He usually kept food in his safehouses - dry stuff that was easy to prepare, microwavable meals that would keep, cans of soup and one or two bars of dark chocolate in case of emergency munchies – the proper stuff, at least 60% of cocoa, none of that sugary-soap Hershey’s bullshit that passed for chocolate stateside. Unfortunately, this particular safehouse was an emergency of an emergency kind of a hole in the ground that rarely saw his face, dressed down to absolute necessities. Bare walls with no windows, a mattress and the tiniest bathroom known to man – Jason had seen jail cells more hospitable than that. The only “luxury” was a metal case with his survival kit: first aid box, waterproof envelope with some cash, a set of plain clothing, a gun with an extra magazine and a few ration bars.

Designed so that whoever found this place wouldn’t have a reason to connect it to the Red Hood in any way. If push came to shove he could bunk down in there for up to a week; if he saved the food and none of his wounds got infected.

That’s what this was, a hovel to curl up in and lick his wounds until he was steady enough to stand up and move on.

He had few of these spread across Gotham and Bludhaven, alongside a couple of proper safehouses he usually operated out of – with hot water, clothes and an array of weaponry to make Deathstroke cry. The only drawback of those was that the Batfamily was so annoyingly good at sniffing them out – it was ridiculous and Jason suspected that he had Tim to thank for it, the little obsessive asshole who didn't know the meaning of a word ‘privacy’ or ‘fuck off, replacement, I work alone’. You’d think that out of all the brats, Tim would understand his need for time alone, one introvert to another, not to mention the sheer inherent _assholishness_ of forcing a vigilante out of their safehouse, but nope. Not a chance.

That was family for ya – you either wanted to kill them or you wanted to kill them, no in-between.

Thankfully, this room was not much bigger than the mattress it contained so it didn't take long for Jason to crawl towards the box and fish out his last, lonely ration bar. He wolfed it down in record time, focusing on his breathing and the way he could feel the energy flowing through his body. It was a trick Ducra had taught him, useful in trying to find out the source of any physical issues since trying to use his nose was usually an exercise in futility for Jason.

This time it didn't work, the headache kept distracting him with low-key buzzing running through his ears. That, and the hunger the ration bar and a bottle of water did nothing to alleviate.

His healing factor was sometimes downright inhuman, maybe the damage he’d taken yesterday was more severe than he suspected? His body ran on some crazy irregular metabolism even before the resurrection, after all...

_(Jason remembered his first weeks in the Manor, freshly off the streets, eating everything in sight. He remembered Alfred complaining in this calm British manner about a hole in Master’s Jason stomach, but never stopping him - no, Alfred looked all too happy to serve food to the starved kid at any time of the day. Midnight snacks weren’t uncommon and Jason’s newfound love for sourdough bread had led to the older man suggesting a marriage of convenience with their baker’s son. Even Bruce had a laugh or two about that, interspaced with careful comments that such appetite was not uncommon for alphas-to-be._

_Jason had hoped, oh how he’d hoped for it to be true back then…)_

Now, maybe he just needed to top up the tank and the headache would go away.

Or he was getting sick.

Infection? The drainpipe _was_ ancient.

That was just his luck, dammit. Just because the recent bout of holiday from being an Outlaw was a fairly calm one - the small territorial dispute with Black Mask’s drug runners that kinda got out of control, notwithstanding. Barely anyone had died and Jason only got hurt because he was cocky outside of Gotham…

Damn, he will have to send Roman flowers and a bottle of Prosecco once he got back to Gotham; no reason to cultivate grudges, because of one small misunderstanding.

That was the _last_ time he’d agreed to help Damian out with his little shady dealings, swear to God. The kid was a trouble magnet of epic proportions and way too much of an asshole to be easily forgiven for it. At least Tim was cute enough to mostly get away with being a little snitch - but see if Jason buys him a present this Christmas, ha! If a furious scowl was the reward Jason got for protecting the kid with his own body form a harsh meeting with the pavement… yeah, no, no matter how much he still respected Talia, her kid was a pain in the ass.

Trousers donned, shoes firmly on his feet, Jason considered his options.

He was still a bit wobbly, exhaustion weighed him down, and his closest proper safehouse in ‘Haven was about an hour away by foot - he wasn’t going to make it, not when even a sole thought of taking the rooftops threatened to upturn his stomach. Usually,  rooftops were the preferred mode of transport other than...

...the motorcycle he’d left back at the docks. Fuck.

There was a gas station about ten minutes from his current position and he was hungry enough that an armful of nasty, microwaved hot-dogs and an energy drink sounded just about excellent.

Forgoing under armour in the name of a worn hoodie (his ribs were nowhere ready for any added weight), Jason locked the safe-house up and started to walk. The night outside was dark and quiet, a bit unusual for that part of town, but he’d take it. The neon haze of Gotham was absent here and the smog was much lighter, meaning that the late Autumn Moon was visible over the crumbling buildings.

A nice night for a walk, all in all.

 

* * *

 

The thing about being Jason Todd was that there had to a clause somewhere in the God’s paperwork that said his life was supposed to be a joke - and every time he’d managed to forget about that little fact, life did its level best to remind him.

From an abusive house to the streets, to the Batcave, to the grave. From there back up, back to the streets, then down the green Pit of acid and insanity, only to emerge as a sort-of-a-zombie-but-not-completely with some sort of a rage-demon hitchhiking his body, and then back to the streets. Like some twisted tale of Alice and her mirror.

From a family that was crap, to a family that was all he’d ever wanted, to the semi-family of assassins and monsters, back to the okayish-family that sometimes wanted him and sometimes didn’t, depending on the phase of the moon…

From a helpless child that wished to be an omega, like his mom, to make her proud, to find a strong alpha who would protect him and cherish him… only to realise that life wasn’t a fairy tale and only the strongest survived in Gotham, and started to wish he’ll present as an alpha - to be able to protect his mom, himself, from the cruelty and indifference. To be an alpha big and strong enough to live up to the standard his new family had set and to protect the less fortunate kids who had no one in their corner. Even when he’d hit fourteen years of age and it became more and more clear that he’ll never be anything other than a Beta, he still wished…

Only to die shortly after, never had properly presented, and come to his senses years later as a man with no designation and no scent. A freak of nature in more ways than one.

An Alice that made it all the way to the end of the chessboard, only to discover that the journey wasn’t worth it.

 

* * *

 

Damian hoped he was doing the right thing.

Well, no, he knew that his intent was pure - in the most logical sense, of course. He was the heir to the name Wayne and, as it was, the heir to the pack. His mother had made sure early on that he would present as an alpha, there was no other way for him, that was his future - to one day lead the family pack.

Except, at thirteen years of age he was almost painfully aware that his pack was a disgrace.

He’d never blame his father openly, but he did have to question the man’s affinity for picking up strays of one designation and trying to build a functional pack out of them. Father’s will was strong, of course, and his ideals understandable - Bruce Wayne was a man who fought for equality and against outdated ways of thinking, and it was an admirable stance. But he was also stubborn, unable to admit to his mistakes and understand that not everyone could train themselves out of their instincts or were, indeed, even able to. That controlling oneself to that degree was a sign of a broken psyche more than anything else.

Damian himself has been taught self-control by his mother, of course, but he’d been also taught how to turn everything about himself into a weapon - including his instincts. The key was understanding, not denial, something that Western society was yet to learn.

What it had meant in the end was that he absolutely _refused_ to be a leader of a pack in its current state. He’d have to spend the first year of his tenure whipping it into shape!

Father has managed to keep things more or less afloat by taking on new children - even if he wasn’t aware of it, his instincts have been appraised with that - but it was clear that this model was straining at the edges and leading to more issues than it solved; Richard’s departure for a new territory, Barbara’s growing emotional distance and Brown’s, well, _everything_ , only proved it. They’ve all had their places in his future plans (yes, even Drake; if Damian was to outsource the leadership of the Wayne Enterprise to anyone, it will have to be the best pick and, want it or not, Drake was the best pick.) but nothing will go forward as long as the Bats keep straying from home and risking their lives in stupid, random ways.

As loathe as Damian was to admit it, the pack needed a new balancing factor and at this point, nothing less than an omega would do.

A pregnant omega would be even better - the family would close ranks around the pup and build their new hierarchy from there.

But that was also where the problem rested - finding an omega to fit this particular pack was an impossible task. They could not risk a civilian and the vigilante community was tragically short of worthwhile prospects - not only were omegas a rare sight under a cape, but also the ones that took on the job were… well, more or less damaged in ways that wouldn’t help his pack.

Damian had made his decision after a period of thorough consideration. There were no omegas available that would fit his strict criteria and he suspected that the situation won't change soon - meanwhile, the family was falling apart and his future was growing more uncertain by the hour. Time to do something about it was slipping through his fingers.

And _Richard_ was already there - an inextricable part of the pack, the one member of the family universally loved and respected by all, a man admired by the Justice League itself. He was already something of a beating heart of the pack, they’ve all went to him for comfort at least once. His history with Father has been the most uncomplicated, he was the most senior of the Robins and hopelessly affectionate by nature. A perfect candidate to take over their emotional upkeep.

Sadly, he was already an alpha.

Fortunately, it was something Damian could fix.

 

* * *

 

 

This was a _terrible_ night for a walk.

Getting to the shop was an exercise in perseverance - the half of a mile down the street shouldn't be as fucking exhausting as it was. By the time the sliding glass doors closed behind him, Jason was panting for breath, sweating like a pig in July and hurting in every joint from his toes to his hips. He was more and more concerned with his general health. If he wasn’t currently taking a holiday form the Bats and their issues, he’d chance a quick visit to Dr Thompkins - if he could be sure that she won't go tattling to Bruce. The woman was lovely, but way too invested in the whole family drama.

Why did he decide to stay in New Jersey, again?

Oh yeah, Damian.

Ten minutes in saw him parked by the microwaves, leaden with ready-made meals and chocolate, minding his own business and waiting for the pack of hot-dogs to finish cooking. His stomach was trying to gnaw through the spine to the other side and, for a moment, Jason considered eating the sausages raw, but he wasn’t a fucking animal. Enough, that he was already gums-deep in a bar of Hershey’s and hating every damn second of it. To think that HE - the former street kid and a crime lord - was the one to develop sublime tastes.

Come to think of it, maybe the “crime lord” part was to blame - he’d rarely seen a mob boss without an ounce of style. Heroes, however… (he didn't even have to look far, the shining light of humanity, Clark Kent, couldn't even tie a tie properly and the less said about the darling of the League, Dick Grayson and his fashion sense, the better).

A thought of walking back to the bunker, munching on the raw burgers as if they were doughnuts flashed through Jason’s mind and had him snigger. Alright, that was horrifying and funny at the same time. Though, it did little to take his mind off  the pain that travelled up and down his spine, stopping briefly at the hipbone station to kick some trash cans and punch a ticket dispenser.

The microwave released a loud beep and Jason almost tore the door off of it to get to the hotdogs.

“Oh yeah, come to papa, you processed suckers.”

If Talia saw him now, showing two of them into his mouth, swallowing almost without chewing, she’d probably vomit. He kinda wanted to vomit, too, but his stomach was too greedy to release its catch.

Chomping on the ‘dogs, Jason picked his way through the shop, the mountain of junk food in his arms growing, until it was dropped on the counter in front of a half-comatose looking night clerk.

“A bag with these, please,” Jason mumbled around the mouthful of almost-meat, reaching down his pocket for cash. “And throw in some paracetamol.” The clerk looked at him with blank, watery eyes, and Jason clarified with a sigh. “Tylenol. Extra strength. Make it two packs… or three.”

His body ate through medication like crazy, he hoped that three bottles will be enough to carry him through a couple of days at least.

“Has to be close,” the clerk mumbled, scanning the fourth in a row Snickers bar. Jason hummed absentmindedly, browsing through the fun size packs of candy arranged around the register. “Can smell it all over you, man.”

That had him finally pay attention. “What?”

“Your omega, man,” the kid smirked, pointing at the mountain of food in front of him. “Their heat will be hell if they’re already this hungry.”

If he was anymore less of a perfectly trained assassin, Jason would give in to the urge and sniff at his hoodie, to find out what the hell the kid is talking about. He hasn’t been in a presence of an omega since the last time he went to town. And close enough to touch one? Weeks, about the last time he’d shook Roy’s hand before the guy fucked off on his Space Holiday.

And an omega _in heat?_

Pretty much fucking _never_.

The clerk had to smoke one too many joints in the back of the shop if the sickly sweet cloud hanging around him was any indication. Even if piling up food and painkillers was a pretty usual pre-heath prep, Jason had never smelled of anything more than the fabric softener of the month. ( _Or literally, nothing, if he dressed up for work, which was a scare tactic all on its own._ )

“Yeah, man, whatever,” he agreed easily, not in the mood for prolonged conversations. “How much is it?”

He paid, took the bags and steeled himself for another march.

When he finally made it back to the bunker, he downed nearly half of his supplies in one go, swallowed a handful of painkillers dry and, hoping that he’s not going down with the flu, curled up on his mattress for the well-earned food coma to claim him.

 

* * *

 

 

Damian still kept in contact with Talia, he doubted that he’ll ever be able to cut her out of his life entirely. The ties binding them were too strong and complex to be severed by a bit of emotional backlash. Yes, she had sent her assassins after him more than once, and there were moments where he could freely admit that he despises her and what she’d tried to mould him into, but that didn’t mean that they could not be professional around one another.

He didn't feel affection towards her and doubted that she feels any for him, not in the usual sense, but she could supply him with some rare resources and still harboured some sentiment towards him that he could exploit. He’d never go against her openly, and she was willing to do anything in her power to help him reach his full potential, hoping that one day his eyes will open and he will return to her.

That he outright requested her aid was an odd occurrence in on itself - but it was the gist of the request that had her show surprise. However, his arguments were sound and so she didn't have any reason to refuse him. “I hope you’re sure of your plan.”

It still irked to be cautioned, though. “Yes, mother, I’ve made a decision.”

“This is not a thing to be done lightly,” her voice was perfectly steady through the speakers, but on the screen, Damian could see the corner of her lips raising slightly in amusement, a bit of a fang showing. “Nature makes its choices for a reason and arguing with them is risky.”

“I will be sure to remind Grandfather of that next time I see him.”

It still sent a thrill through him to make her smile, no matter how much he hated the feeling. “Very well, my son, I’ll arrange for a messenger to deliver the elixir to your hands.”

“Thank you.”

“It will be entertaining if nothing else,” she smiled again, and his heart fluttered. “To see how my Beloved deals with this new challenge.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two months later, Damian received a message from one of the lesser members of the League. A request to set up a meeting - the courier chose an inconspicuous location near the docks on the border between Gotham and Bludhaven. It was a rundown neighbourhood with not much happening, poor enough that even drug dealers steered clear of it, not willing to waste their time. A perfect place for a clandestine deal.

A perfect place for anyone who wasn’t Batman’s son, that is, because there was no reason for Robin’s patrol route to steer that close to Nightwing’s territory by accident. He’d either have Batman questioning his motives or Nightwing crashing his party with an excuse of brotherly bonding and that wouldn't do. The mission was too sensitive for that.

Damian needed something to serve as a cover - father would know that he snuck out, of course. If he snuck out alone to do his shady dealings, that is.

However, shady dealings alongside someone known for their less than stellar adherence to the law? That was, paradoxically, less suspicious than the alternative.

Father had a - _curious_ \- way of thinking. He was a genius, but was also set in his ways and, for someone who knew him closely enough, he was fairly easy to predict.

That’s where Todd came in.

An endless source of family drama and frustration, and, because of that, a perfect cover. Father wouldn’t question Damien’s possible dealings with the League when he could question his open association with Red Hood instead. He wouldn't go asking Hood for a report either, because they were still barely talking to each other.

And Hood wouldn't question Damian needing his aid to covertly contact Talia if he was sure it will annoy Batman in some way.

They were both acting like children and that only strengthened Damian’s resolve about bringing the balance to the pack.

For all his bluster, Todd was surprisingly insightful and unsurprisingly shrewd - Talia saw potential in him and Damian hated to admit that she wasn’t quite wrong. Most importantly, Todd appreciated the value of discretion and wasn’t keen on getting involved in something that didn’t concern him personally - unlike the rest of the pack. A simple exchange of favours was enough for him most of the time.

Sometimes, Damian wondered if that hasn’t been mother’s intention when she’d decided to take in the second Robin. Did she look at the broken boy in her care and saw in him a future ally for her own son? She did sic him on Drake, after all, as if to clear a path for the rightful heir and serve as his first ally and a weapon to be unleashed at his enemies.

Sometimes, he wondered how it would go if Todd hasn’t thrown off the Pit Madness and could be used like that.

Empty divagations, all that. Now, he needed to send some messages.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, things fell down the drain pretty quickly. Quite literally.

How could he predict another shady deal happening in the shadow of the old church they were passing over? How could he ignore the presence of a known mob lieutenant right underneath his feet and not attempt to bring him in? How could he pass by such a perfect excuse to his nightly absence staring him right in the face like that?

And how in the blazes could he be so distracted that he’d lost his footing on the slippery tile of the old church’s roof and - a disgrace of all disgraces - had to be rescued by Todd of all people?!

He would have done it on his own, thank you, he’d been trained form the crib on how to take a fall! The fact that his hands instinctively went to the silver locket around his neck instead of the grappling gun meant nothing, there was still time enough to shoot a hook and swing. But no, Todd just had to play the hero and get in the way. The clumsy oaf wasn’t even agile enough to balance Damian’s weight accordingly - instead, he swung them right into the wall, taking the hit with his shoulder and somehow managing to take down an ancient drainpipe on the way down. They’ve slammed into the pavement less than gracefully in a clatter of metal fittings, alarming the thugs as surely as if they’ve shouted for attention.

Predictably, a shootout commenced. Thankfully, Todd was more than efficient with a gun in his hands and the whole embarrassing business was wrapped up in less than five minutes. Neither of them escaped unscathed: Damian sported a scratch on his cheek and the left side of his chest was splattered with blood from the gash on Todd’s ribcage. Even in the darkness of the alley, he could tell that the wound was deep and, from the way Todd breathed, that at least one rib has been broken - but Damian refused to feel sorry for it. He didn't need to be protected!

He wasn’t, however, ungracious and knew that Talia still harboured sentiment towards the man, so he cut their mission short, ordering Todd to take care of his damage before infection set in. The drainpipe and its fittings were ancient and rusted through, who knew what sort of diseases they could spawn?

Damian waited until the Police arrived to arrest the unconscious thugs and swung to the rooftops, eager to get home and wash the blood off of his suit - Todd never smelled of anything pleasant and his blood was even worse in that respect.

It took him, shamefully, more than an hour to realize that the vial of liquid inside of the locket was missing. All he was left with were a few shards of glass and a dawning realisation that…

...uh-oh, he fucked up.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Dick is here to save the day :D  
> ..or just get more confused. 
> 
> I actually have a bit of this written already, so the wait won't be terrible between the chapters - I hope>>

The next two days were a painful, sweaty, hungry hell. Jason stayed in a state of half lucidity, waking up periodically to devour whatever he could get his hands on before falling back into the grey haze. His mind was as sluggish as his body, but it had enough steam left to understand that something is very wrong with him, even though the wound on his side has healed. It was almost like the fevers he'd experienced shortly after Talia dunked him in the Pit - days of twisting and turning, of pain and nightmares. At least this time he wasn't sweating green, so it couldn't be that bad, right?

_(Vaguely, he recalled another night from his past, when he was small enough to fit himself into the corner of the couch, under his favourite blanket, with Bruce's steady presence warm at his side while some old Western movie played in the background.)_

But that was an old, old memory, from the better times he wouldn't ever get back. He was trying to shake it off, nostalgia was useless to him now, but his mind didn't want to comply, holding on to it, trying to find comfort in being cared for by the strongest alpha in Gotham, if not the world.

Yeah, right. That ship has sailed ages ago, got torpedoed on the way and sunk to the bottom of the sea.

Still, some small part of Jason couldn't be convinced and he was too tired for an internal battle. In the state he was currently in, he'd lose by a knockdown.

He went through his stash of water like a man dying of thirst, and by the evening of the second day had to resort to drinking tap water in the bathroom whenever he had the presence of mind and enough coordination to crawl his way there. His clothes were dumped in a heap on the floor, damp with sweat and... just too much. Everything was _too much_ , the only comfort he could find was when he was curled up on the mattress, underneath the blanket - it was hot and scratchy, and smelled like a men's locker room, but Jason couldn't bring himself to throw it off, the air outside was too cold.

For a hot minute, he considered letting someone know - but Roy and Kori were off the planet and any one member of his extended family was… Complicated in ways that Jason didn't want to deal with. No, he didn’t want any of the alphas there, trying to crowd into one of the few safe spaces he had left.

Bruce, being the least desirable option - and he would show up as soon as one of the others went tattling, if only to throw his weight around.

Anyway, by the time Jason could come to a decision who to call, another wave of fever clouded his mind and he forgot about it completely.

An indeterminate length of time later - he couldn’t rightly say, his phone has died and he didn’t have the clarity of mind to plug it back into the wall, - the fever broke enough that he could stand up and move around, but the movement was hindered by the stabbing pain in his lower belly and a bit more urgent pain in his upper belly - he was hungry.

He needed food. Desperately.

Jason wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to dress, but between one blink and the next, he found himself staring at the familiar shop’s window, waiting for the sliding doors to let him in. Not even gracing the cashier with a look, he followed his nose to the small bakery section - it was late, the bread wasn’t fresh anymore, but that didn't matter. Jason stuffed a slightly deflated croissant into his mouth and, chewing determinately, started to throw remaining pastries into the provided paper bag. Then another.

There was something that the cashier might have said to him, but Jason waved the kid off, safe in the knowledge that his sheer size was enough to keep people away for a while. His next croissant was filled with chocolate cream and he moaned at the taste in pleased surprise. Good, that was good. He needed more chocolate - and a few power bars - and energy drinks - and painkillers… damn, he was sweating again, felt it drip down his back underneath the hoodie, warm droplets leaving cold trails on his skin… it was unnecessarily distracting.

Everything was sort of distracting, the lights were too bright and space around too cluttered, and it all smelled overwhelming, he didn't want to spend any more time in there than necessary, he just needed to get food and go back to his bunker…

“Hands up where I can see them!”

Thank fuck for some leftover instinct that heeded the sudden commotion, recognised the danger and dropped him into a crouch behind the shelving units at the back of the store. Unfortunately, he’d paid for it with a powerful cramp that bowed him in half, hissing in pain, arms wound around his middle.

“Fuck…” Jason gasped, pressing his temple to the door of the cooler he was curled against.

Paradoxically, that sudden stab of pain bought him some clarity of mind. Enough to carefully lean out of his hiding spot and assess the situation.

An armed robbery in progress, as it turned out. Three guys he could see inside of the store, in the early twenties judging by their voices, faces hidden behind bandanas, armed - one with a bat, one with a tire iron and one with a shotgun - all with an attitude to spare, threatening the poor cashier who probably wasn’t old enough to drink yet. So far they’ve seemed undecided if they want the kid to keep his hands up or use them to open the cash register and it looked like they won't have much time to decide, the kid looked on the verge of fainting already.

And Jason was wearing his civvies, not even a knife on his person because he hadn’t had enough clarity of mind to take one with him. He was in _terrible_ shape for this.

 _Goddamnit_ , he thought, diving back behind the wall of chips and beef jerky, this week was not going well.

He needed a plan, he needed… The headache pulsing behind his eyes intensified the more Jason tried to come up with a way to defuse the situation. His best bet was to disarm the shotgun nut and take over the weapon, that should make the other two scram in a panic because thugs in Bludhaven were smart enough to run from bullets. But for that, he needed a distraction and a clear shot at the guy, and… he needed less light, for starters.

Then, as if by magic, the lightbulbs in the store blinked out one by one until the only light left came from the EXIT sign over the doors and a dull lantern outside the window.

“Evening, gentlemen.” A melodic voice called from somewhere under the ceiling.

Jason lowered his head in pain.

The thugs reacted predictably. “Fuck, Nightwing!”

“Aw,” the voice cooed, “I'd prefer a dinner date first.”

No, really, the situation was _still_ going downhill?

It was too much. Too much noise, too much chaos. Just _too much_. He needed to get back to his bunker, where it was dark and calm and quiet. He needed…

 

* * *

 

 

Now, the night was starting to get interesting for Nightwing.

That he’d stumbled upon a robbery _in flagrant_ e was the purest of happy accidents. He was just returning from the docks, where he’d interrupted a pretty big drug deal from going down, and simply decided to pop in for a cup of coffee and a late night snack on his way back to the city proper. A good thing he did.

Dealing with the three misguided young alphas - from the moment the EMT emitters built into his suit short-circuited the lights above to hogtying the last of the thugs with zip-ties - took him all of four minutes. Dick planned to leave right away, but the young clerk - _Danny_ , said his tag - desperately needed reassurance. The poor thing was pale and shaking, and Dick’s heart cleaved at the sight.

Damn, what idiot allowed him to work night-shift in such a crappy neighbourhood, alone? This was a book example of how you put an omega into shock! Dick hoped that the kid will be okay and regretted a bit that his scent blockers prevented him from releasing any calming pheromones, the place just reeked of omega in distress and his inner alpha wasn't happy about it at all.

“I’ve triggered the alarm,” Nightwing bowed over the sitting teen, voice calm and moves slow, telegraphed. “Will you be okay to wait for them or do you want me to stay?” His sleeping schedule won't suffer if he stays for a few more minutes. He’d never leave a scared omega with three lowlifes, even bound.

“I-I’m f-fine…” Danny’s teeth chattered, but a few deep breaths managed to restart his speech. “I’m fine… thank you… but there’s... There was another person in here… Over there.”

Dick followed the shaking finger with his eyes in the direction it was pointing - the very back of the store, just by the fridges, where the shelving units were wide enough to hide behind. “I’ll check it out, you sit tight,” he said, lightly rubbing the omega’s shoulder.

He moved to the back of the store, still keeping caution, because the lights were back on and the situation has been dealt with - there was no reason to hide anymore and yet the person he could clearly hear (quick, loud breathing, creaking of a rubber sole on the linoleum floor tiles) wasn’t eager to show themselves. The reason, however, became clear as soon as Dick rounded the corner, ready for an attack, but instead finding a tightly curled up bundle of a man clinging to the door of the nearest fridge.

Shit, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to deal with a panic attack from a bystander. Or a drugged up rando on a very bad trip. He couldn't smell anything past the sickness to help him decide which one it was this time. All he could see from that angle were long legs dressed in creased track pants and a sweat-soaked sweatshirt with the hood drawn up. In situations such as this, Dick usually opted to err on the side of caution.

He went down into an easy crouch in front of the figure, doing his best to project reassurance and calm. “Hey, it’s alright, it’s over. Nothing will hurt you, promise,” he spoke quietly. “Can you look up at me?”

“Fuck,” the voice that came out of the bundle was rough and breathless, and… familiar? “Are you using the victim voice on me, Dickface?”

Dick froze hearing the nickname. “Jason?” He stammered.

Yeah, it was Jason. Curled up into a tight ball, covered in sweat, shaking like a leaf and reeking of sickness and… stress? Of an omega?

That was so, so very _wrong_.

“Jay!” Dick grabbed his brother by the shoulders, cringing internally when the younger man flinched. “Jay, look at me! Come on!”

He pulled the flushed face up and was met with a chargined glare and a weak attempt to push him away. That didn't add up, why was Jason here instead of… He wouldn't be hiding from a handful of thugs, not ever, so why…? Did they get him before Nightwing got there? He looked like he was in pain…

“Fuckoff! Jesus, N, just… back off!” Jason slurred his words and his gaze was hazy, but he was trying to stand up and back away, clumsily and with the help of the nearby shelves. “Just... “ He wavered and Dick reached out to help, but was pushed away again, almost tripping on the discarded bag of bread underfoot. “I need… I need to...”

And just like that, Jason turned around and rushed out of the store, leaving Dick behind in a dumbfounded stupor.

Now, Dick Grayson hasn’t made it to a detective because of his good looks or his tight, beautiful ass, but one needn’t be a detective to realise something was very wrong, because Jason didn't run from people - he at least tried to make it look like dignified tactical retreats. He wouldn't just... just book it like that. Especially, not from Dick of all people.

Was he on drugs? Wounded? Scared? Was the madness… returning?

A cold shiver ran down Dick’s spine, worry starting to build. Jason might have been built like a boxer, but in the brief moment Dick got to see his face he looked sick enough to topple under a stiff breeze. He didn't even _try_ to get in the way of the robbery! Could he even fight in this state at all?

Clenching his teeth, Dick rushed to follow after his brother.

Jason didn't take to the rooftops - another concerning fact, - making his way on foot, instead, and not very fast at that. The wailing of the police sirens closing in on the store drowned out the sound of frantic footsteps and harsh breathing, but Dick needed only to follow his nose to stay on track.

Disconcerting, because Jason's scent was usually so faint it was easy to miss.

Not now, though. It led Dick for about half a mile, to a rundown apartment complex that was surprisingly bereft of squatters. He didn't have time to question it, dashing down the dark staircase into an even darker basement, barely managing to put himself in the way of the closing door - Jason might have been sick, but he was still _heavy_ and Dick’s shoulder took the burn of the slam.

“Go… away!” Jason panted at him, putting his weight against the door. “Leave me alone!”

“Not until I check you out!” Dick snapped back, trapped halfway on the doorstep, pushing back with all his might.

“You did… I’m fine! Now piss off!”

“Yeah, try again!”

He tensed, shoulders working until he managed to move the door away enough to slip into the room, colliding harshly with Jason’s chest and sending him stumbling backwards. The place was completely dark and Dick spared a moment to turn on the night vision in his mask - and then almost stumbled himself at the sight that greeted him.

The room was a complete and utter _mess_. The mattress in the corner was about the only scrap of space not littered with empty water bottles, cans of soda and food wrappers. Clothes were spread all around and Jason’s red helmet laid amongst the chaos as if it was just a toy, not a piece of incredibly sophisticated and expensive tech. It was so unlike the usual order Jason lived by, it was staggering!

As bad as it looked, it smelled even worse. A heavy, sour note hung in the air - of pain and fever. The scent of a sickbay that hasn’t been aired out in a while. There were no outright signs of drugs present, but who knew what could be hiding under this mess?

“Jay, what’s going on?” Dick did his best to breathe through his mouth, but it wasn’t much better. He could _taste_ the misery in the air. “How long have you been sick? Are you on your own?”

Jason, unsurprisingly, didn't answer. By the time Dick was done with looking around, he already buried himself under a blanket and pressed into the far end of the mattress, seemingly attempting to melt into the wall. _“Go ‘way!”_

And normally Dick would listen – because his IQ was something he was proud of and he wasn’t eager to poke this particular wolverine in the ass. There was an unwritten book of rules that helped to put order to the way their family interacted, aiming to keep the drama to a minimum. The chapter that pertained to Jason started with an annotation that he was the original loner (the kid’s best friend growing up was a gargoyle, for god’s sake!) and trying to push yourself on him 99% of the time resulted in Jay turtling up and going to the ground, only to reappear in a blaze of explosions in some small Middle-Eastern country three months later. The warning ended with a _“Goddamnit, Grayson!”_ for no reason Dick knew of.

Well, alright, his alpha instincts were set to 11 on pack-bonding pretty much as a default, but he’d learned his lesson. Nowadays, they’ve had this nice pattern with Jason, where Dick didn’t try to mother him more than twice a year and Jay didn’t scale walls at the sight of his approach.

Normally, Dick would leave, trusting Jason to take care of himself, and wouldn’t interfere until directly asked for help.

This time he was finding it hard to step back. There was something in the air, some sort of a note that his lizard brain has picked up on that had his conscious mind perplexed and more concerned than normal. Starting with the fact that any sort of scent clinging to the younger man was a cause for investigation – Jason was as scentless as a human could be, practically invisible if one went by their nose, a blank sheet of see-through paper. Sickness and stale sweat, yes, these were normal under the circumstances, taking the state of the room into account, but… but there was _more_.

Dick could smell _distress_ – as clearly as when he was standing over the frightened omega no more than twenty minutes ago. He’d be willing to believe that he’d carried the reminders of that scene on his own clothing, if not for the fact that his suit was designed to repel everything, scent particles included. If not for the fact that, when he leaned over the mess curled in front of him, the scent was growing more intense to the point where his throat vibrated with an involuntary growl.

He just _couldn’t_ leave. Every instinct he had was telling him to _do_ something _now_.

Wow, it’s been a while since the last time he’d felt protective over Jason of all people, but here it was.

“Jay.”

He moved closer, kneeling on the tangled bedding, and attempted to pull the blanket away from the younger’s head, to see his face. When all he got for his trouble was a growled curse, he pulled his right glove off and rested his palm on the uncovered bit of skin on the back of Jason's neck to judge his temperature.

Oh yeah, that was high enough to cause concern.

“Jay, did you see a doctor?” He asked softly. “How long have you been here?”

There was a plastic bottle by his knee - a container of Tylenol, now empty. Another one on the floor close by. And a whole battery of empty water bottles. That sort of answered his first question. It fit Jason to a T to try and manage his own sickness, the Bats were reliably horrible at taking care of themselves when Alfred wasn’t there to remind them.

Dick shook Jason’s shoulder, ignoring the grumbles and growls directed his way. Jason not fighting him off physically was another bad sign. “Jay, have you been hurt recently? Shot?” Infection was a possibility. “Stabbed?”

“I’m tired… leave me ‘lone...”

The protests were growing weaker and weaker, Jason’s voice turning fainter and higher, edging into the area of a whine - and if it was any other situation, Dick would find it adorable. Red Hood always tried to pose as a hardass, but, back in the day, Alfred was very fond of mentioning that the rough and tough street urchin was turning into an absolute kitten whenever he caught a cold. There were photos to back up these claims - proudly displayed in the family album - of a young Jason curled up on a couch, under a fluffy blanket, flushed adorably in his sleep.

It was way cuter than what was happening now.

Now Dick didn't feel warm and fuzzy feelings towards the younger man, he was drenched in confusion and helplessness, and his instincts were beginning to spin out of control under the onslaught of pheromones bombarding them from every direction. They went completely off the rails when Jason shifted under Dick’s persistent tugging, angry enough to kick out in an attempt to dislodge the intruder from his mattress, and the scent of blood joined the cocktail of sickness in the air.

Dick snapped. In no time he had Jason on his back, groping his torso and pulling up the damp hoodie in search of wounds or any other damage that could explain the new note.

He didn't find anything on Jason’s front and got punched in the face for his trouble - the punch was uncoordinated and weak, but it did the job of pissing him off on top of everything else. Dick growled and pounced. Ignoring protests that grew more frantic by the second, he pushed his nose into Jason’s stomach and sniffed, deftly moving out of the way of a knee trying to make out with his ribs. He knew the second Robin had always violently refused to conform to the scent-oriented checkups, but if you acted like a child in front of Dick Grayson, you were treated accordingly.

Jason twisted when the cold nose moved up his chest and Dick bore down to keep him in place, trying to pin his hips down. It was just bad luck that he miscalculated and, instead, his elbow ended up digging into Jason’s underbelly.

Jason _howled_.

The scream echoed between the concrete walls of the shelter and Jason curled up around his stomach, accidentally trapping Dick between his thighs - where the scent of blood was the strongest.

A few instances in his life had Nightwing backing away this fast.

Bile rose up to his throat as the clues started to slot into a pattern, but Dick pushed it down, along with the rage that tried to sneak up on him. There were _other_ explanations! He shouldn’t project!

“ _Jason_ ,” he choked out from the edge of the mattress, reaching out to touch the shaking shoulder, desperate to calm the pained sobs that Jason was doing a terrible job of hiding. “Jay…”

“Just… leave…”

God, he was such an idiot, losing control like that. All that sensitivity training GCPD provided and he was letting his instinct get out of hand like a damn rookie!

“Jay, you need a doctor,” he spoke softly, but insistently, making sure he was leaving his brother with enough space, even though he wanted nothing more than to smother him in the tightest embrace. “I'll take you to Leslie's clinic.”

He will need a car for that, no way was Jason going to stay on the back of his bike. Maybe, if he called Bruce to help… no, not Bruce. Alfred was a better option, Jason loved Alfred. But it was a middle of the night.

“Not goin’ n’where,” Jason cut into that train of thought, his pained gasps slowly coming together to form words. “Fk’off!”

Faced with an enraged, glaring blanket burrito, Dick weighed his options carefully.

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t thank you enough for coming.”

By the time Dr Thompkins arrived, Dick has managed to find the light switch and dismantle the lock in the door downstairs.

“Don't worry about it, nowadays I don't need much sleep anyway.” The doctor assured with a small smile, but her eyes threatened murder if it turns out that the call was unwarranted. Busy with the clinic, she rarely made house calls these days. “Show me to the patient.”

He led the way down the stairs and into the bunker, not surprised at all when the older beta’s nose wrinkled in displeasure. The dim light from one lonely bulb by the door only served to make the room on the bottom of the stairs look even more depressing. Dick was _really_ out of his depth here.

Leslie listened to his short report on the way and didn't draw attention to his nervous hand-wringing, for which he was grateful. She simply nodded along and set out her shop on the edge of the nest Jason made for himself in the corner.

Dick watched, anxious on behalf of both the doctor and the patient, as she gently pressed the reader of the electronic thermometer into Jason’s ear to take his temperature. Jason, for his part, did all he could in his muddled state to pull away from her, even though the best he could do was to press himself even more against the wall. He seemed to be beyond vocal communication at this point. Leslie was undeterred, pulling out object after object out of her seemingly bottomless bag, her moves slow and telegraphed, her scent unerringly calm and composed. She was gentle, but firm, not allowing the young man to push her away or hide from her ministrations.

It took less than fifteen minutes for the standard examination to be finished.

“Well?” Dick dared to ask, but all Dr Thompkins gave him was a headshake.

“I need to take his blood. Hold his hand for me.”

For the second time that evening, he lowered himself onto the matters, but this time he was much more careful. It took a minute to fish out Jason's arm out of the tangle, but apart from the stubborn fabric, Dick was met with almost no resistance. He pulled the sleeve of the sweatshirt up and held the arm steady when Leslie tightened the tourniquet around the bicep.

“He’s dehydrated,” she said, tapping lightly on the crook of Jason’s elbow to locate a vein. “I’ll set up an IV after we’re done with this.”

The blood sluggishly filled the glass tube, then another, before the needle was pulled out and a piece of cotton was taped in place to protect the pinprick wound. Dr Thompkins labelled the vials with a marker to store them in a safety case. Then she pulled out a bag of fluid and a cannula pack, putting them on the side for now.

“His lower stomach,” Dick swallowed the nervous feeling at having Jason so still in his presence. His breathing was shallow and skin hot to the touch. “I think that’s where it hurts him the most.”

“Alright.” Dr Thompkins visibly steeled herself for the next part. “Nothing left than to check.”

“Can you give him something for the pain first?”

“Not really, not until I know what's wrong with him. This boy’s situation is… complicated when it comes to medicine, you know?”

No, Dick didn't _know_ and now he wished to. But that could wait.

The scent of blood only intensified since the first moment Dick had smelled it and by now Jason’s pants were stained red between his legs. The sight was more distressing every time Dick looked down because it might have been internal bleeding and that was bad enough, but it also might have been _something else_ that Dick was in no way prepared to deal with.

Amongst all the other scents in the room, there was one that was distinctively similar to a heat scent and that… not all omegas could control their own actions while in heat, and Jason was a big boy - easy to assume to be an alpha if you didn't know him… and he was so ill and defenceless right now…

“Do you… want me to go?” Dick asked Dr Thimpkins when she moved to pull the track pants down his brother’s hips.

Her gaze on him was firm, but sympathetic. “I need you to hold him for me.” She’d like to tell him he can leave for this, that much was obvious, but Jason was sometimes almost inhumanly strong and what would he do to an elderly woman when half-conscious and startled with pain didn't bear thinking about.

Together they’ve pulled and pushed, until they had Jason on his back, all that without an ounce of protest from him. He was pliant like a doll, unsettling in his stillness. Dick leaned over, ready to react at a moment’s notice, as Leslie started to poke and prod at his brother’s stomach in search of internal damage.

There was no reaction until her fingers pressed down low, right between the protruding hip bones - Jason _whined_.

It took Dick a solid five seconds to react to the noise because it was the last thing he ever expected to hear out of Red Hood’s lips. Jason didn't _whine_ \- hell, Jason barely even knew how to communicate in non-linguistics!

Well, apparently he did now, as it was evidenced by another reedy whine escaping his dry lips when the doctor flattened her palm across his underbelly and moved it for a moment in small circles, with her eyes narrowing in concentration.

“Dr Thompkins?”

“Sit behind him,” she ordered, reaching back into her bag for a pair of rubber gloves. “And hold him for me. I need to check the bleeding.”

She knew something, Dick was sure, she had some rough idea what could be wrong with Jason, but wasn’t going to share. Not yet, he could only do as asked. A bit more of pulling and Dick was curled behind Jason, back against the wall, arms around his brother’s chest, trying to keep himself from burying his face in the side of Jason’s neck when his head rolled back to lay over Dick’s shoulder.

“Hold his leg for up me.”

Oh god, was she… was she running the kit on him?

Leslie was gentle when she pulled the pants down all the way, surprisingly - or not - skilful at taking them off. She pushed Jason’s long legs apart with care and hooked his right thigh over Dick’s bent knee. It was all clinical and gentle, but Dick could not ignore the feeling of wrongness tightening like a vice around his lungs - or the low rumble that vibrated in the back of his throat, his inner alpha trying to reassure his unconscious packmate the only way it knew how.

He didn’t look down, he couldn't. Jason needed to keep at least a scrap of his privacy and Dick simply didn’t know what he’d do when Leslie’s gloves came up bloody or if she reached for the small white box the corner of which he could see in her bag.

Instead, he busied himself with pressing his nose to the hot skin of Jason’s temple and keeping up the calming purr. Hoping that it’s helping his brother at least a little when the thin, high-pitched whines started and Jason’s shoulders tensed in his grip.

“Well…”

Leslie’s voice brought him back up; it was tense and too calm.

“Doctor?”

She was already pulling off the gloves, balling them up and stuffing them into the pocket of her jacket. The cannula was unsealed, swiftly inserted in Jason’s forearm and taped down. “He needs to go to the clinic. Now.”

“But…”

“Get him into my car, I’ll set up the IV once he’s there.”

 

* * *

 

 

If getting Jason’s massive, heavy, unconscious ass up the stairs and through a dilapidated building was a gruelling test of Dick’s strength and endurance - discovering that Dr Thompkins drove a Volkswagen Beetle was like a kick in the balls at the end of a marathon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, another confused alpha;]  
> Sorry for the change of tense at the beginning, I just prefer to write these confused situations like that >>

Jason knows that something isn’t right from the moment his senses come back online, but that knowledge is hard to exploit when his brain feels like it’s been dipped in molasses that slowed the speed of the signals between is neurons down to a crawl.

He wakes up to the harsh light glaring into his eyes, mouth dry like sawdust and the fever making his head spin.

He's laying on something vaguely soft and it takes him a while to realise that he's naked under the paper thin sheet covering his top and that someone is touching him where they shouldn't. Jason forces his eyes open against the light and gasps.

He's surrounded by white, the sharp medical scent twists his nose and… he can see his feet. His legs are in the stirrups, hoisted high and wide, and there's someone between them. He can’t see who, the sheet covering him reaches his knees, shielding the person from sight apart from the top of their head.

A lazy thought slowly swims up to the surface: the fuck?

His brain whispers that whoever they are, he should try to break their neck with his thighs... but it doesn't happen, his legs are strapped to the damn things and normally he would be able to break the metal and plastic with no trouble, but now… He doesn't really feel much below his waist, apart from the pain stabbing into his hipbones and the numbness spreading down his legs. He can barely locate his toes.

There's just the ghost of touch between his thighs, slick and cold, plastic and glove-covered fingers where they shouldn't be!

He snarls at them to move, to leave him alone, but his throat hurts, he can barely keep his head up and his vision is swimming - the sound comes out more like a breathy sigh than a growl. Maybe because there’s something stuck in his throat - he can feel it now that he moved his head, a plastic tube taped to his cheek.

What?

“Now, there, calm down, we're almost done,” a kind voice speaks on his right. A woman. Familiar? “You're okay.”

Fuck he is! What the fuck are they even..? He tries to hold on to the brief flash of outrage, but it escapes him.

“Is he awake?” Another voice speaks. The one from between his legs. “Is it safe?”

“It’s alright,” the woman answers. “Anaesthesia doesn't work for him as…” A strange hum blocks out the voices for a moment. “...finish fast.”

He tries to move, but he's being held down easily by a hand resting flat on his chest. Then, fingers appear to rub at his collarbone, then neck; small, gentle circles drawn on his skin. Strangely soothing, his muddled mind focuses on them until he almost forgets about his situation - until the metallic sound of grinding metal and suddenly he feels _stretched_ in the place that should not stretch, and snaps back to awareness - as much as he can, at least.

He's still feverish, he can feel it, but… he's hot. He feels awful - his stomach cramps in the way that he recognises from one or two serious benders, his head hurts and his skin is numb. His tongue feels like a plank of wood in his mouth and, much as he wants to, he can't voice his protest at the situation. The sounds that escape him would shame him in any other circumstances with his high-pitched and weak they are.

Oh yeah, breathing tube.

“... last stitch… going to take a swab,” says the person between his legs. “Alm… done...”

He’s fading, fast. The fingers rubbing his neck are speeding up the process.

“Relax, Jason,” the woman-voice says close to his ear. Up close she smells of powder, disinfectant and… calm? “You’re alright. You’ll be alright.”

What…? He wants to ask, wants to open his eyes, but his mind is already shutting off, window after window going dark.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t often that Bruce got a call from Dr Thompkins, at least not since she’d stepped down from leading his mother’s foundation. And even less often the call had contained a terse request to visit her clinic at his _earliest convenience_ \- spoken in a tone that had Alfred raise his eyebrows at Bruce to signal that, miraculously, his schedule had been cleared for the rest of the day.

It was well past two in the afternoon when he’d finally stepped into the clinic, in nondescript civilian clothing, hoping against hope that his presence won't be picked up by the paparazzi.

Leslie greeted him in her office with a smile and a small hug, but he could tell from the creases around her eyes and the dusty note to her scent that the invitation wasn’t a cordial one. He’d always remembered her desk as a veritable warzone of reports and patients’ files, and this time it looked no different - except, now there was a folder placed squarely on top of the mess, too tidy and new to stay inconspicuous.

He declined the offer of a drink, dropping his _Brucie_ persona as soon as he sat down in a chair he’s been pointed to. It didn't escape his notice that the doctor has locked the door behind them.

“I am not doing this lightly,” she started, settling down in her own chair, folding her hands on top of the folder. Her eyes bore into him with the seriousness of a high-school principal hot on the case. “I’d never break patient’s confidentiality, you know that.”

Bruce nodded. If there were two people in the whole Gotham he’d trusted explicitly to stick to the letter of the rules of their professions, it was Commissioner Gordon and Leslie Thompkins. “Unless it meant saving someone.”

“Yes.” Her glare dropped and her stiff pose relaxed until she looked just as tired and conflicted as she smelled, and Bruce had the strangest feeling that it was going to be personal. Why else call him - as his public persona, no less? Dr Thompkins knew his family, his pack, and they weren’t the only ones that went to her for help off the books, but they were the only ones that _would and could_ hide their visits from him if it came to anything important.

 _Especially_ if it came to important things.

“Which one?” He asked, full of slowly building dread, sure he’d hit the nail on the head when her gaze lowered to rest on the folder underneath her folded fingers.

“Jason.”

A thousand scenarios flashed before his eyes, each one worse than the previous, all of them ending in an unholy mess.

It was his cynicism that spoke for him when the rest of Bruce tried not to show a shred of apprehension. “What did he do?”

The glare was back and he knew he deserved it, but Jason was such a complicated subject, the doctor had to know his priorities when it came to him. Damn, he wasn’t even aware that his wayward son was back in Gotham! Last he’s heard, Jason has been bunking in Bludhaven. His inner alpha pack leader grumbled in displeasure at the boy’s erratic appearances, never properly reconciled with an idea of a pup that came and went as he pleased, but Bruce had let him be.

It's not surprising to hear that he shouldn't have.

“God, I forgot how dysfunctional this pack is,” Leslie muttered to herself. “I’m almost not surprised that he didn't want you to know that he started to present.”

...

And just like that, all processes inside of Bruce Wayne’s brain froze and the systems running them bluescreened. “...what did you say?”

Jason…? Did she mean that _Jason…_?

“I’m still waiting on the results of some tests and a full report from the endocrinologist, but there’s no doubt.” The smile on the woman’s face told him exactly how much she enjoyed shutting him down as she pushed the mysterious folder under Bruce’s nose. “Congratulations, Bruce. You have an omega.”

 

* * *

 

 

He read the file. He read the reports, looked at the ultrasound images until they were imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, studied the available blood results and every clinic comment until he had them nearly memorised. He didn't know how long it took him to reach the back cover, it was hard to focus on the time when questions tried to escape his head via the means of a spontaneous explosion.

Dr Thompkins, in the meanwhile, rose from behind the desk and got herself a cup of coffee from the coffee maker in the corner of the office. If she was anyone else, Bruce would be up on his feet, accusing, demanding answers, convinced it was some kind of a trick, a lie. Something to blindside him and throw him off his game, for whatever reason he couldn't even start to imagine. Convinced that he’s being played, that it’s just another one of Jason’s insane schemes brought on by the Pit’s madness, designed to bring him misery - even though it’s been ever a year since the last time they've had bared teeth at one another. Since they've made peace with each other.

If it was anyone else asking him to believe them, he would demand more proof that a human could reasonably deliver.

But not when it was her name on the preliminary report and Dick’s name next to it.

The fact that Dick had known - had been, in fact, the one to find and bring Jason to the clinic - was something to consider later. Right now Bruce already had one thing to focus on. One question that tried to burn through his mind. “Why now?” He voiced it, staring blankly at the reports.

Leslie shrugged from her perch on the low filing cabinet, slowly stirring sugar into her coffee. “If I had to guess… it’s because, on some level, your pack had accepted him back. You and your exclusively alpha pack.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “The completion theory?”

“It’s not a theory if it’s a fact, isn't it? Your pack is so unbalanced that any prepubescent child you’d have accepted in at this point would present as an omega, no matter their parentage. It’s a wonder that your youngest didn’t, to be honest.”

Not much of a wonder, once you knew that Damian’s body never had a choice in the matter.

That, however, left more questions than answers. “Jason is an adult, not a child.”

“Who’d never presented.”

No, he never had the chance. A sickly child that grew into a malnourished and overburdened teen, from the get-go destined to be a late bloomer. He’d barely started to fill out enough for the hormones to start their magic when the lid of the coffin closed over him.

“But what changed now?” He asked - her, himself, the room itself. He'd spent sleepless nights pouring over the issue of his second son’s damage, researching ways to help the young man trapped in a body and mind that grew, but never developed as they should. Wondering if it was the Pit, or the death, or something even earlier, something that Bruce could have discovered and prevented if only he'd paid more attention. If only he'd…

“I’d say it was your attitude!” Leslie snapped. “Think of the stress the last few years had to have been for his system.” God, if she even knew the half of what Bruce has learned about the years following his son’s death and resurrection. “I wouldn't be surprised if his body halted at least some hormone production because of that. You know what a Stress Shock Disorder is, yes?”

He knew. Everyone knew. “It happens to omegas.”

Leslie scoffed. “If only. It can happen to anyone. It’s caused by physical or emotional stress, hormonal imbalance or lack of nutrients in a diet. Once these factors are removed, there’s a chance for the body to heal the damage and return to normal. Some traumatised omegas and alphas wait years to go back to having heats and ruts, Jason’s case isn’t as improbable as it may seem. What is improbable is how he’s going about it.” She returned to her chair, blowing on the hot beverage more out of a need for motion than anything else. “You know that your boy is a bit of a medical conundrum. Because of what happened to him… his inner workings aren’t exactly easy to pinpoint. His metabolism is raised to ridiculous levels, his blood works rarely make sense, and he burns through medication like it’s carbs. And now? His body seems to be trying its best to catch up to years of development in what looks like weeks.”

Bruce's fingers twitched on the reports, but he stopped himself from looking down, from turning to the pages speaking about an emergency surgical procedure that happened without his knowledge or agreement. He had to stop himself from making a sound as he thought of the _internal bleeding_ that had to be stopped.

“I can’t tell you why exactly now, Bruce,” Leslie looked at him and her own frustration with the lack of answers was clear for all to see. “I can’t even tell you _how_. The medical field has no set precedent for anything like this happening, just separate cases of a vague likeness of people presenting way past their time, and SSD is usually the culprit, but Jason’s specific set of circumstances throws a wrench into any sort of predictions we’d like to make.”

“I understand.”

“Good, because I need you to sign some paperwork on his behalf.”

That was another thing that threw him off, even if logically, he should have expected it.

“Why me? Technically, he’s… He’d…” How did you say it? That in the eyes of the law your son had died eight years ago and you’ve lost all obligations pertaining to him?

That your son came back from the dead and eschewed any sort of familial connection you two might have had?

Leslie understood, her pinched expression told him as much. “Situation has changed, as you can imagine.”

He could, unfortunately. Jason was presenting - from the law’s strict point of view he lacked the capacity to make binding decisions. In such case, the person’s medical and legal matters were handed over to their legal guardian to sort out as necessary until the individual was deemed stable enough to take them back. Which made sense, because the war of hormones that took place during the months that the presenting took place made it near impossible to think clearly.

Except, that law was almost exclusively written around pubescent children, who were already dependant on someone else.

Jason wasn’t a teenager. Jason had been a fully autonomous adult only a week ago.

Even worse, he was presenting as an _omega_. Which meant that roughly four times a year Bruce will be bound by the same law, as his son’s heats will render him incapable of lawful consent for the whole duration.

Considering the boy’s very obvious opinion on the subject of pack-belonging and Bruce himself... that was a new mess in the making.

“I wish we could keep it quiet, but his situation requires more medical attention that I can provide on my own and you can arrange for off the books,” Leslie’s voice shook Bruce out of the momentary stupor. “He needs an endocrinologist and a gynaecologist on standby for the next however many weeks it will take him to settle. He may need corrective surgeries on the way. Not to mention, the mental health support he will need after.”

And that meant money - from what Bruce knew Jason didn't suffer from a lack of funds, however illegally acquired, but money meant bills and receipts, which meant invoices, which meant paperwork and questions asked. People will look into this matter if only for the novelty’s sake.

No to mention that a lonely, packless omega will be assigned a state-mandated handler for a long as he's in the system. Because of course, how could he be trusted with his own legal matters in such a trying and confusing time of his life? The state was bound to investigate his origin and possible remaining blood connections, trying to find a permanent guardian.

Which, in turn, meant that Jason was likely to murder someone by the end of the year, before disappearing from the face of Gotham for good. And Bruce found much to his surprise (or not really) that he didn't want the first to occur, but that the second was downright unacceptable.

His power and wealth may just be enough to keep the lid on the fact that his son had become an oddity and keep his name out of medical journals, but… But if he tried to keep it completely silent, then people treating Jason _will_ question that. There _will_ be inquiries about Gotham’s famous millionaire trying to hide the fact that a young man in his care presented as an omega.

Leslie was giving him a way out here: treat it as a personal matter concerning the closest of his pack and he will find understanding. Treat it as a dirty secret, and sooner or later the papers will talk.

“We haven't... seen eye to eye for a long while, Leslie,” Bruce spoke quietly. The logical part of his brain was busy trying to sort out the legal mess he was about to step into, while the alpha in him clawed at the walls, confused by the situation, but mostly angry at the sole notion of an _emergency surgery_ and anyone touching his pup when he wasn’t there to watch over him. “I don't think that he’ll appreciate me taking the reins like that.”

Jason won’t appreciate him butting in - him _knowing_ , - period.

But the echoes of Bruce Wayne the Father crashed against any rational thought they came upon, full of fear and guilt and hope. His son has presented. Almost a decade past his time. He’s presented as an omega in some rundown hole in the ground in Bludhaven, alone and unprotected. And now he was maturing outside of the pack, again alone, confused, in pain… and God knows what other complications the Pit could cause him. His son was hurt and tended to by strangers, while his pack has been unaware of it...

Bruce needed to forcefully pull his instincts back to let him think clearly for a moment.

“I’m somewhat aware,” Leslie’s scent spoke of pity, “but you’re his father and you have to be prepared for when he finally comes to you. He’s an omega and, sooner or later, the draw of the pack will bring him back. And then he will need you on top of your game, alpha, supporting him.”

She sounded doubtful, his alpha decided, as if she didn't believe he could take care of his own pack. As if he couldn't help his own pup when it came to him in need!

“You’ve never had an omega in your care, Bruce,” her voice was soft, even though Bruce’s posture stiffened. “He’s too old to adjust to these new instincts without an issue and the transition will be hard on him. None of this will be easy on anyone involved and your previous methods will only make things worse.”

Feeling like a scolded kid, the alpha lowered his hackles. “So what… now?” She was right, he wasn't very good at helping his own pups.

God, he was absolutely out of his depth here.

“We wait. As of now, it should take two to three months at most for the body to settle. The uterus is almost where it should be, development wise, and his scent glands are forming without an issue so far. It’s painful and it’s exhausting for his organism to make up so many things at once, the window for errors to occur is still open. He needs to stay under observation, in relative peace, with plenty of food and fluids available until his first heat.” Her gaze sharpened. “As for the mental changes…”

“...mental?” Bruce could only parrot her.

But of course, she was right, Jason was an omega. _An omega._ And omegas were…

“Drop that look, Mr Wayne. He won't suddenly lose his intellectual prowess between now and the next week.”

“I know that.”

He knew. There were omegas more intelligent and cunning than any alpha - cue in Lois Lane and Batman’s own nemesis. But most omegas usually expressed their intelligence in a different way, emotionally they were on a whole other plane and needed specific handling. And with Jason already so volatile and full of negativity…

“Usually, we have years for our instincts to come online, to get used to and learn to work with them and our bodies. It’s a slow process he’s going through at a breakneck speed, it’s going to be rough.”

“What are your suggestions?” Bruce looked at the doctor, suddenly feeling every single year of his age in his bones, wondering if he looked as tired as that.

Leslie leaned over the desk and patted his hand. “Now? Get some books and start reading, kiddo.”

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t go to see Jason before leaving the clinic, even though it earned him a full-blown glare from Dr Thompkins and a tight band squeezing his stomach like a vice when he fought his instincts down every step of the way. He just couldn’t - not yet. Not like that, minutes past the bomb was dropped on his head. Not while Jason was still out of it, ravaged by the fever and _bleeding internally_ because his body had a hard time accepting the new organ.

He needed a moment to think this through - to come to terms with everything. He was never good with emotional issues and always had a problem when instinct got involved on top of them. The only way he could get a grip on himself and start thinking rationally was to leave the situation and take a moment to think about it.

There was a thought worming its way into his conscious mind, making him aware that if he goes to see the boy now, he will not be able to leave him.

So he signed all of the paperwork Leslie put in front of him in a blind stupor and left.

On the way home, Bruce made a tactical call to skip the patrol that night. Even considering all his compartmentalising skills, he knew that his head wouldn’t be in the game – he wasn’t able to stop thinking about the revelation for a moment yet, and distraction got people killed. He’d be a liability. Damian and Stephanie were all too happy to pick up his slack, under Oracle’s watchful eye, once he’d sent the order.

Briefly, he considered contacting Tim, calling him over from the Titans tower, leaning on his calm pragmatism and intelligence to help him through this. He didn't. Not yet, it wasn't Tim's duty.

The drive to the manor happened as if in a dream, Bruce couldn’t tell what happened during it, he was just getting into the car and then Alfred was opening the door for him, taking his coat and subtly inquiring about the reason for the sudden emergency. Bruce’s control over his expressions had to be failing somehow because the butler didn’t press for answers – he had to look the least half as dumbfounded as he felt. With a promise of a cup of tea coming his way, Alfred sent him up to his study and Bruce went without a quarrel.

He found himself at his desk a while later, with a cup of tea cooling in his hands and no solution coming to mind. Because this wasn’t a problem pertaining to the Mission, it left the Batman stranded.

Was it fair to call it a _‘problem’_ at all?

An issue, surely, one that Bruce will need to involve himself in, certainly, but…

This was so _typical_ , everything to do with Jason was always so steeped in conflict and uncertainty. Surprises kept coming fast and low from the very first moment he’d laid his eyes on the boy over the stack of Batmobile’s tires. Nothing was ever simple with Jason and Bruce had enough self-awareness to admit that a large reason for it was himself. He wasn’t the best example of a father – not even that great of an alpha, to be honest. The current shape of his pack could only attest to it.

But now - this.

This… issue.

A part of him was fuming – it was just like Jason, to throw him a curveball when he least expected it, to face him with an impossible situation that had his mind spinning in circles, unable to cope.

A part of him was ecstatic – the part that was all alpha instincts and half-buried parental aspirations towards the boy. His son finally presented. The son they’d all thought to be broken beyond repair, forced to live outside of society, unable to fit in with anyone… finally, there was a place for him. There was a place that Bruce could finally _give him_ because Jason was an omega and…

“Can I interest you in dinner, Master Bruce?” He was so lost in thought that Alfred’s entrance went unnoticed. Something the old butler didn’t miss, if his raised eyebrow was any indication. “If you’d rather, I can bring a tray to the study…”

“Jason presented.”

He didn’t realise he spoke the words out loud until the other brow joined the first arching over the butler’s widening eyes. Bruce bit his lip, embarrassed by the slip, but after a moment gave up the pretence of keeping his composure. This conversation had to happen at some point, may as well be now.

Alfred listened to his explanation with that patient expression, his shock at the news barely telegraphed in the way his lips tightened briefly and a minute glossy sheen to his eyes. The old man was sentimental, regardless of his daily stiff-upper-lip bearing, and his bond with the second Robin was always strong. At times, he was more of a father figure to Jason than the man who had adopted him.

Bruce offered the copies of the reports and Alfred leafed through them carefully.

After Bruce did his best to summarise his conversation with Leslie, the man simply nodded. “I take it that the boy is currently under Dr Thompkins’s care in her clinic?” He asked.

“Yes, he’s under observation.”

 _Bleeding internally_.

“Very well,” Alfred briefly rubbed his hands, in a manner of a butler on a mission. “I will prepare a room for him in the Eastern wing.”

Bruce started. “Alfred, I don’t know…”

His weak protest was waved away like a persistent, but harmless insect. “None of that, Master Bruce, this is a very delicate time and the boy will need his pack to see him through it. Whatever quarrels exist between the two of you will have to be laid to rest for now.”

His tone of voice clearly said, _“I’ve taught you better than that, young Master,”_ and Bruce felt a spark of shame at being chastised like an unruly pup.

Still. “Alfred…”

“I’d have him spend this time in whatever comfort that can be provided,” the man’s voice never shook, but it could grow soft at the edges, as it did now, shutting down any protest Bruce wanted to voice. “He’s had so very little of it in his life.”

That was true, and clearly the end of the conversation.

Bruce watched the old butler leave, back straight, but gait tense, and heaved a sigh once the door closed behind him. Maybe it was better that the decision was taken out of his hands like that, someone had to make it and he was clearly in no state to think rationally yet.

Enough that he’d have to come up with a way to let the rest of his children know – because Alfred was right, Jason needed a pack to see him through the change and the pack needed to step up to the task.

For once in their long and complicated relationship, Jason’s alpha planned to step up to the task.

And for that, he needed to make his move smartly. He needed a backup with a decent emotional range and some answers.

He called Dick.

 

* * *

 

 

Damian closed and locked the door to his room in a kind of a mute stupor that grabbed a hold of him the moment Father has told him the news. The news being that…

That Todd has presented as an omega.

That was not something he’d even remotely expected to hear after coming back from the patrol.

Struck dumb, he could only nod when Father informed him in a stilted fashion that, form tomorrow, Todd will be staying with them at the manor, under observation due to the violent nature of the change and if Damian could please not make it any harder on any of them, then Father would be grateful.

Damian nodded his way through the explanation and scoffed appropriately when expected to, and even allowed a brief reassurance that his place in the pack wasn’t in danger because of the new situation.

Of course, it wasn’t, Damian was the heir, regardless of who got to…

Todd was an omega.

He retired to his room and, once there, safe behind the closed door, collapsed on the bed in a boneless sprawl of acute relief cut through with confusion.

He still fucked up – but now he didn’t have to admit his ineptitude in front of Mother.

He just needed to – think. To re-plan.

It was obvious now that the source of Todd’s sudden hormonal imbalance was the serum – the vial had to break on impact when they’ve crashed into that wall. And Todd’s armour had been damaged, his flesh torn open, it wasn’t a stretch to assume that some of the liquid entered his bloodstream that way. Or rather, a lot of it. Instructions provided with the vial stated clearly that the serum was extremely potent, and advised that numerous small doses over a stretch of time were about the only safe way to ingest it.

Good thing that Todd’s physical stats were ridiculous, that might have been the only thing keeping him alive so far.

Relief in Damian fought with terror, however, because if Father ever figures out that he was the one behind all that… he certainly wouldn’t be as open to his arguments as Mother had been. If he doesn’t tread lightly now the consequences may be catastrophic.

A chance for it all ending in a catastrophe was already high enough due to Todd’s very involvement.

Gods, Jason Todd – the omega.

His pack’s omega.

Damian didn’t know which urge was stronger – to laugh or to cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!  
> This thing is getting longer:O  
> And look at us now, all fancy and betaed by the amazing M00n_Slippers :OOO

Dick spent the next three days in a daze of confusion and uncertainty. After he left Jason at the clinic, he went back to Bludhaven. He had to, Dick had duties to attend to, his job, responsibilities. Something inside of him shriveled up with every mile of distance from Gotham, but he told himself it wasn’t necessary. Jason was an adult, he was in good hands, he wouldn't want Dick to hover like a housewife, because Jason hated attention. Especially attention from the family when he was down.

It worried Dick that Leslie didn't tell him anything, didn't answer any of his questions. Her vague reassurances weren’t enough to calm him down, he was a worrywart of the grandest proportions, especially when it came to the pack. And Jason, regardless of the past and his best attempts to be contrary, was a part of the pack.

That’s why as soon as the car got moving, Dick reached for the phone to call in reinforcements—Tim was outside of Gotham that week, but he could still hack some CCTV remotely and give Dick a better image of Jay’s situation. So could Babs. He could also spread the news to the rest—if Jason was going to be out of commission for a while they would have to cover his neighborhood. Red Hood wasn’t as involved with Gotham’s crime scene as he used to be, but Dick knew he still made his presence felt enough that the gangs around Bowery knew not to step out of line.

But as soon as he reached for it, the phone was slapped out of his hand by Dr. Thompkins.

“I know what you’re doing. Don't do it,” she ordered.

“What?”

“Jason and I have a deal where he trusts me to put him back together and I don’t go tattling.” The look she sent him from the corner of her eye was sharp as a knife. “I know that in this family stalking is caring because you’re all emotionally scarred and desperately lacking proper socialization, but please try to respect my situation.”

“But…” How was it possible that an elderly woman driving a Beetle seemed suddenly more frightening than Batman’s hardest glare? “What’s your hypothesis?”

Leslie shook her head. “I’m not sure. It may be as simple as an infection, food poisoning, some gastrointestinal issue…”

Dick almost swallowed his tongue. “Cancer?!”

She gave him a calming pat. “Crohn’s. Or IBS. Or someone kicked him really hard. Or doused him in narcotics. This family is very hard to diagnose, Dickie, I hope you understand.”

Well, when she put it like that, it did sound a bit concerning, didn't it?

“He’s in good hands, I promise. If it’s life-threatening, the family will know. Otherwise, please wait.”

She was right, of course, she was right. Jason was a dangerously private person; even after they made nice a year ago with Bruce, he was slow to return to the family. They knew when he was in Gotham, but rarely ever knew why, and when he was away, it was as if he fell off the face of the world. Dick suspected that out of all of them, only Tim had a shade of an idea where their lost bird was flying and only because Jason was more open with him than he was with anyone else. (And wasn’t that the strangest thing?)

It was also true that their pack had some...issues with privacy, to take it lightly.

So Dick put the phone away and dropped the Doctor and his unconscious brother off at the clinic, in the hands of people actually qualified to help him. He promised to visit the next evening, right after work.

...only to have a triple homicide dropped on his desk in the middle of the day with no clues and with way too many suspects, and that plan fell through.

He still worried, but the investigation had to take priority while the trail was hot and the main suspect still in Bludhaven. It was a messy, violent, tragic story and Dick had to bring it to court completely by the books, without the help of his night-time persona—this case needed bulletproof evidence and the protocol followed to a T if the murderer was to be judged justly and put behind the bars for as long as he deserved.

It was an intense and exhausting five days of pressure without much time for rest that left Dick questioning his life’s choices—for example, fuck the motorcycle, why didn’t he get an SUV he could comfortably sleep in? He was twenty-seven going on twenty-eight, he could drive a dad car.

He needed to mention an SUV on his Christmas list this year, either Bruce or Tim would surely get him one, the loaded bastards.

Dick went to bed at the end of the fifth day of running on coffee and determination, and got all of four hours of sleep before the phone ringing woke him up.

It was Bruce.

Dick was on his way to Gotham before the call ended properly.

 

* * *

 

Dick wasn't a stranger to receiving shocking and unnerving news, but this was how it felt to have a bomb dropped on one's lap—and he'd know, it happened to him a few times. You felt your stomach turn light and floaty and then drop all the way down to your ankles. It was disturbingly similar to the feeling he experienced once, a decade ago, when he received one of the worst messages of his life (not the worst, no, nothing was worse than waking up in the hospital bed and being told that life, as he knew it was over, that his parents didn't survive the fall and he couldn’t even stay with the circus) way past the time when it could've made a difference.

Why was this so chilling? It was nowhere close to discovering that Jason had been murdered, this was the exact opposite, right? It was something good, or should be!

Cass was a late bloomer too and when she presented they were all happy for her.

Except her 'late-blooming' happened at sixteen, not twenty-three and had fewer disturbing connotations behind it, didn’t it?

She also didn't have an inch thick medical folder full of scans, reports, and test results, that Bruce had Dick read as soon as he stepped through the manor's door after he was dragged to the older alpha’s office.

Thank God for Alfie and his impeccable butler-sense providing Dick with a cup of sweet, hot coffee almost at the same moment. God bless Pennyworth, they'd all be lost without the man.

It felt weird to read files on Jason behind his back, it felt strangely intrusive in a way that hiding a tracker on his bike didn't, the concerning content of the files notwithstanding. "He's going to be pissed."

Bruce's expression told him that the man was aware of it, expecting it and already regretting the fallout, but unwilling to change course. Typical Wayne.

"Does anyone else know?"

"I've sent a copy to Tim, but he's currently off-world."

The look pointed Dick's way said, ‘See? I've learned my lesson.’ And it was all he could do to keep himself from snapping something sarcastic like, 'good riddance' or 'about time too' because this argument was old and worn, and they didn't need to rehash it right now.

"Have you told Cass and Babs?"

"Barbara knows. Cass fell off the grid a week ago, I won't risk compromising her mission. She will be informed as soon as she’s back in Gotham."

Wow. That was…

"That's shockingly forthcoming of you, Bruce."

Dick knew it wasn't the time for jokes, but Bruce being this open? Willing to share information with the pack—to share it, period? That was strange and concerning in itself.

The man had to guess Dick’s train of thought because he rubbed at his face, obviously unhappy and uncomfortable with the need for transparency. It was surreal. "We have to be on the same page about it, Dick, as a family. What's happening to Jason is unprecedented and potentially dangerous if we don't treat it with the degree of seriousness it deserves."

Dangerous to Jason and to them all, Dick understood. An omega left to their own devices, without a pack, in their line of work...with all the issues Jason had already suffered…

His mind did a jump, a quick side-step, a graceful flip, then it landed on its ass and Dick dropped the file he was browsing (blood test results, there were so many of them, emergency surgery, internal bleeding) and just sat there, staring at his hands while his brain rebooted, because—Jay was an omega.

Jay. Was an _omega_.

Jason presented. And was an omega.

"I know Dick, I know." Bruce's voice came to him muted as if his head was underwater. "It's... unbelievable."

Unbelievable? It was a miracle! Not that Jay was a stranger to those, sometimes his whole existence seemed like an experiment of some higher power hellbent on keeping the kid going against all odds. This was par for the course, once you thought about it, because what else was there for Jason to surprise them with after showing his middle finger to the literal Death? After returning to kill them, after the bag of goddamn heads—this was good news, this was amazing!

Except, it was Jason and no one knew how he'd react to it, but the odds weren't great.

(But it was relieving, because what Dick feared didn't happen, at least Jay was spared from that...as far as they knew.)

"I know it's a lot to take in, Dick."

"You don't...for a moment I thought…he reeked of blood and fear, and had that wild look in his eyes, for a moment I thought that he…I know that he’s built like a brick wall, but he was obviously unwell, and…”

Bruce rested his hand on his son’s shoulder, a sign of silent support that was taken with a grateful nod. He was one of the few people who knew what had happened to Dick in the past and understood the terrifying possibility that appeared before him.

“This situation sucks, B, but I’m happy that I was wrong.” Dick took on a deep breath and steeled his expression. “Life’s already dealt him such a crappy hand. Christ, look at that,” he chuckled but there was no humor in it, waving his hand at the files spread on the desk. “Can you believe that one kid can go through so much before he can even legally drink?”

“Kid? You’re not much older yourself.”

But they shared the sentiment. The misery plaguing Jason’s life could be easily shared between three or more people.

”Yeah, B, and what does that tell you?”

“That everyone has their own share of woes. This is not a competition.”

Dick sniggered and Bruce looked like he wanted to slap himself for channeling Clark of all people.

“You want to tell me I’m valid next?”

“I want to tell you to stop talking.”

“But that’s why you need me here, to talk.”

“I need you here to help, not to be a nuisance.”

"What do you need me to do? I doubt that he'll want to speak with me any more than, well, any of us. You know how he is."

"I know. But I agree with Leslie, he will need his pack..."

"He will need his alpha, Bruce.” Any humor died after these words. “Are you ready for that?" Because, if he wasn't this whole thing wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of working. "Are you ready to deal with him as a son, not as a victim?"

He watched Bruce freeze and exhaled a tired sigh. "You can't hide behind that, he will know you're doing it, he spent years trying to get out of that mindset, out of being nothing more than a good dead soldier."

And Dick had an idea of how hard it was, being the poster boy for tragedy himself—the poor, little circus boy with his dead parents.

"I won't be doing this for you, I won't pick up the slack as I did with Damian and Tim. Jason doesn't need me, he needs a father that will be there for him, available emotionally and willing to listen."

That was it, wasn't it? The hook holding up everything because things were going to change permanently—the pack would have an omega and it was stupid to expect the dynamics to stay the same. Dick was the first person to admit his apprehension, none of them dealt well with changes so absolute and drastic, he didn't know what to do or how to act right now, and it was a scary thing to realize that he didn’t know how to help his brother. But he wasn't going to run from that responsibility, he wasn't that selfish boy anymore, the family always came first.

The question was, was Bruce ready to change, too? Was he strong enough to put away his hangups and The Mission, and put the pack first?

Alfred's entrance was a relief. "Master Richard, I thought you would be interested in a late dinner. I've also prepared your room for when you're ready to retire."

"I'll leave you to think this through." Dick stood up from behind the desk. "I haven’t had nearly enough sleep this week. We'll continue in the morning when I can think properly."

Bruce's hand was a warm, steadying weight on his shoulder and it had been a long while since Dick last found himself this grateful for its presence.

"I'm ready to do whatever it takes." Bruce's voice as he spoke was calm and even, but there was a rarely-seen spark in his eyes, something that wasn't blank or angry, or harsh and pained, and it stood out because of it, catching Dick's attention and echoing under his rib-cage. "Whatever it takes, Dick."

It almost looked like hope.

 

* * *

 

Dick crashed into the soft, fresh bedding like a felled log and seven hours later he opened his eyes to sunlight streaming into his bedroom and a fresh morning breeze blowing through the window Alfred had just thrown open. It was almost painful how nostalgic it felt.

"Morning Alfie."

"Good Morning, Master Dick." The old man smiled and fixed the curtains into place, before turning to the bed and placing an armful of clothes in the feet of it.

"I've taken the liberty of providing freshly laundered clothing for you."

"Alfie, you didn't have to." He had a whole wardrobe at the manor…

"I thought it prudent, considering you will be visiting the clinic today and..." It was a rare instance when Alfred's voice caught and he didn't finish his sentence, so much so that Dick was fully awake by the time the butler cleared his throat and continued. "I'd advise a thorough bath before you come down for breakfast, young sir."

"Yes, Alfie, on it."

And he was, feet on the floor and blankets thrown back, because yesterday wasn't a dream, was it? Bruce called him in and he did read that file, and Jason was really...really changing. And they were going to visit him after breakfast because try to stop two concerned alphas.

He took the longest shower of the month, noticing that the soap had been changed from the usual faintly perfumed one to scentless, and the same with the detergent used to launder the towels (no softener even, Dick enjoyed the rough scrape of the cotton against his skin). His hair gel and deodorant were tellingly absent—alright, he got it, Alfred covered all bases including Dick's morning scatterbrainness. Probably did the same for Bruce and Damian.

Thankfully, toothpaste was still allowed.

He put on the fresh clothes and did all he could to make his hair behave with the use of water and determination alone. In the end, he looked decent and smelled of himself only, no artificial ingredients, no note out of order—exactly what Jason would need when they finally saw him.

Dick's memory of his own presenting was a bit hazy—the weeks leading to it were busy and full of dread mixed with excitement, and the weeks past were hazy with fever and bouts of oversensitivity that struck at the oddest times for months afterward. He remembered the sudden urge to get rid of his socks and gloves that was downright maddening, and the way even a faint hint of vanilla in the air turned his stomach upside down. And the embarrassing accident when he vomited at Wally when the speedster appeared in his room with a celebratory cake in each hand.

If what he read in the file held water and Jay was going through the whole thing on fast-forward, there may be problems—suddenly being able to recognize the full gamut of scents was a challenge, but suddenly being able to scent people _at all_ was going to be maddening. Dick hoped that Leslie had the anti-nausea drugs stocked up floor-to-ceiling.

He was also sure that there was a special room in the Manor that had already been vacuumed, laundered and steamed within an inch of its life because Master Pennyworth was ahead of the game on all fronts and in all timelines.

Good.

Dick padded downstairs to the smallest dining room they usually had breakfast in, eager to fill himself to the brim with creamy porridge and liquid courage in the form of Alfred's heavenly hot cocoa. Surprisingly—or not, it was Bat country after all—he wasn't the first one at the scene. Bruce was already there, the day's newspaper in his hand and plate piled with an omelet in front of him that he chipped at slowly in a meticulous way that was so common for the man before he was supposed to leave on a doomed mission with the League or the yearly board meeting at Wayne Enterprises.

"Morning, B."

"Good morning, Dick."

His ass had barely touched the chair when the third member of the family strolled in, followed by his usual entourage of animal companions. Titus, the calm giant that he was, stopped briefly by Bruce's chair for an absent-minded pet and a bit more enthusiastic one from Dick, before diving underneath the table where he curled up with Alfred the cat—the routine of it was adorable.

But not as adorable as Damian's morning cowlick.

Dick stifled a coo and hid his face behind the cup of tea. "Morning Dami."

"Richard," the boy nodded his way and slumped into the chair. "Father."

"Son." Dick could see the exact moment when Bruce noticed the unruly strand of hair poking straight up from his son's head—it was that minuscule curl of the man's lip, only visible because Dick was sitting with his back to the windows and could see the shadow shift. Damian had no clue. "Did you sleep well?"

"Tt!" The scoff was a warning sign. The rest soon followed. "I don't understand why this whole charade is necessary. Millions of omegas go through the process at any given moment without all that pretense."

Bruce opened his mouth to answer, but just then Alfred appeared with a tray of porridge for Dick and Damian. "If it's within my power to make the process in any way easier and more comfortable for any member of this family, I will strive to do so. I will be doing the same for you in a few years, young sir."

Dick thanked him for his bowl of creamy, fruity goodness and dug in. Damian did too, but with ostensibly less enthusiasm.

"So, when are we going?" Dick asked Bruce mid-meal. "And who?"

"For starters just you and me." Bruce folded the newspaper and gave his own breakfast a thorough once-over before digging in seriously. "Leslie needs to have a word with us both."

"Us both?"

"Yes. I have thought about what you told me yesterday, and have an answer to your question."

If Damian was a rabbit, his ears would be pointing straight up. Like his cowlick. Cute.

"And that is?"

"I don't need you to step in for me this time, I will strive to be enough...You were right to point that out." A sip of tea to regain his equilibrium after admitting fault, Dick almost cooed at that, too. "But I need your help, in as far as you being my second."

And that was...wow. An admission of guilt and appreciation in one conversation? Be still my beating heart!

As much as it was understood, actually they rarely discussed Dick's official standing within the pack—as an alpha first-son he was the unspoken second-in-command of the family, but actually calling himself that sounded presumptuous to his own ears and it wasn't that long ago when Bruce had used that title against him—when they fought, when Dick wanted to leave…There was a weight to that admission that none of the younger alphas could truly grasp. Jason was about the only one to...well.

"Why can't I go?" Damian sounded more curious than insulted, even though the wave of petulance took skill to ignore.

"Aw, little D, you want to make sure that Jason is alright?" Dick teased the boy, earning himself the first scowl of the morning.

"Because, as far as I'm aware, it's Thursday," Bruce's lip did the thing again. What a day! "And you're still thirteen and no son of mine will skip school unless absolutely necessary."

"Isn't Todd's change an important event?"

"It is, that's why you will be on your best behavior when he finally comes home, is that understood? No stalking and no data-gathering, son. He will need peace and quiet."

Jay would need much more than that, Dick knew, but asking Damian for more than basic consideration was bound to raise the kid's defensive shields and awaken his old doubts about his belonging in the pack. Things were changing and Damian didn't deal well with change, best they started small.

"Hmpf! I can stay with Jon for the duration of Todd's recovery. I will come back once he's gone."

The silence rang absolute, Dick stilled with a spoon in his mouth, Bruce with a teacup halfway to his lips. Uh-oh.

 

* * *

 

"He’ll get over it," Dick assured Bruce, once they were in the car. "He just needs to brood about it for a while before he comes to the conclusion that the world isn't ending. You should know how that works, B."

The side-eye was brief but cutting. "I have no idea what you're alluding to."

Dick chuckled and he saw Alfred rolling his eyes in the rear-mirror.

The Free Clinic was busy as always when they entered it and made a beeline to the ward on the third floor where the window opened from the outside and the rooms were private. Leslie met them in the small waiting room Dick knew as well as his own flat. He helped himself to the free coffee from the expensive machine funded by an anonymous donor and sat down next to Bruce for a thorough debriefing.

In the end, it wasn't as bad as he feared.

"His condition has stabilized throughout the night with the help of antibiotics." Dr. Thompkins handed Bruce another folder, but Dick was fine with just listening. He tried not to show his impatience at being kept from seeing Jason, it was just instincts playing up, he wasn't worried..."The fever is still present, but it isn't life-threatening, we can't do much about it apart from providing adequate hydration and waiting for it to burn out."

...it's just that the last time he saw Jason, his brother was barely holding on, wracked with fever and pain, mumbling and making that _noise_ —the one Dick could still hear if he thought hard enough, the one that raised the hair on his head in an instinctive need to…

He snapped back to the situation at hand when he felt a big, warm hand close around his wrist—his own fingers were clenched on the paper cup, crumbling it, the hot beverage a step from splashing out...if Bruce didn't stop him, he'd be the one in need of medical attention.

The alpha's look was concerned but knowing. He inclined his head towards the door to their left. "You can go if you need to."

Dick didn't have to be told twice.

"Be careful," Leslie warned. "He's confused and defensive, don’t stress him out." "I won't." He couldn't.

Inside the room was familiar in the way your own basement was familiar—Dick's patch-ups happened mostly in the Cave, but he was laid out in a similar room enough times to recognize it in the dark. It wasn't completely dark, but just barely—the lights were dimmed and the blinds lowered, throwing the room into a gloom interrupted only by the soft LEDs of the equipment. It made the silence more cloying and the sporadic beeps and boops of the machines more acute—it was easy to register the sound of labored breathing.

Jason looked distressingly small in the steel-framed bed. Not that he lost much weight, it was just tha—height and brawn were always only a part of his larger than life stature, the rest of it was the way he held himself, straight and proud, and looming. Without that, weakened by the fever, limp with pain and exhaustion, he looked disturbingly frail.

It took Dick almost a minute to notice the scent. It was weak, barely raising above the smell of antiseptic and lysol, but impossible to miss. Vague sweetness permeated the air, remaining Dick of some sweet fruit or maple ice cream, hard to pinpoint. He knew that the longer he was exposed to it, the better his grasp, his brain will make the connection to something Dick found pleasant, maybe even nostalgic. His natural instincts would cling to the scent of a new omega, always finding it interesting and enticing.

The omega (Jesus, it was real) in question was still and feverish and flushed underneath the thick blanket covering him, and Dick felt his chest tightening at the sight. The scent wasn’t as pungent as it was in the safehouse, but it was heady and his inner alpha raised its nose in the air.

Then he came closer, Jason's eyes slit open, just slivers of blue-green, darkened and glassy with fever.

“You…” Jason probably tried to growl, but his voice was breathy and weak. “You… it’s all your fault…”

“Ouch, that’s harsh.” Dick snorted, lightly perching on the side of the bed, where it was easier for the other to glare at him. He wondered if Jason would be able to growl as he used to after the change settled or would his voice box develop enough to give him the proper omega vocalizations? It was such a strange idea...

“I rem-ember…you…I told you to fuck…off.”

“Yes, you did. Many times. But you were very sick, Jay, and I couldn’t leave you alone like that.”

“I didn't…need…your help!”

“There was blood all over your legs and you were out of your mind with pain and fever. That’s where I’m putting my foot down, Little Wing.”

Jason's face took on a pinched look, but the endearment that slipped out of Dick’s lips went thankfully unnoticed in the name of a more pressing matter.

“Are you...still using…the victim voice on me…you asshole?”

Was he? Wait, what was his ‘victim voice’?

“Stop it…I'm…”

The most frustrating man on Earth, ladies and gentlemen. He'll make a hell of an omega, Dick thought. Then he caught himself once more flabbergasted by the reality of it.

“You're the opposite of fine, Jay.”

It was so strange to even consider, but it was true; his eyes told him that, his nose did too. Jason might be glaring daggers at him, but Dick felt nothing but protectiveness swelling in his chest, the instinctive tenderness one felt towards a packmate in need of care—not help. He’d already helped Jay when he followed him to that basement and handed him over to Leslie—and in the past, that would be enough—it was enough until two days ago. Now it suddenly wasn’t. Now the need shifted to _care_ , to taking his younger packmate out of the hospital and into the safety of a home, to providing him with everything he may need to get better and be happy. Because Dick was an alpha and his Little Wing was an omega, and having him scared and in pain was the exact opposite of what felt ‘right’.

He watched Jay slump down on the pillow, exhausted after that brief flash of annoyance, and couldn't stop himself from reaching out and touching the inflamed place on the visible side of Jason's neck where he knew the scent gland was forming. It was covered with a piece of moist gauze, taped down loosely to avoid irritation. How didn't he notice it before, when he held the younger man for Leslie? His nose was so close to that place!

The reaction to his touch was instantaneous and somehow perplexing, Jason tensed momentarily and then relaxed into the bedding as if his strings were cut. His watery eyes looked at Dick and he gasped out a questioning noise.

Dick snatched his hand back. Dammit, he got carried away.

“Wha…what…” Jason didn't look like he approved either if the spark of confusion giving way to apprehension on his face was anything to go by. “What did… you do?!”

Oh God, he promised Leslie he wouldn't stress her patient out and the heart monitor picking up speed was a very not good sign!

“Calm down, Jay, shh,” Dick lowered his voice and leaned in closer, making sure he looked as harmless as possible. “I just touched your scent gland, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have just went and done it, but…”

“My what…?” Jason cut in, one hand falling onto his neck, right on the small wad of gauze. His hazy gaze sharpened for a moment as he prodded and poked, confusion written all over his face. “What are you…talking about...? What…”

Uh-oh. Dick suddenly had a terrible feeling.

“...Dick…”

“I will be right back, Jay. Just a moment.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re undergoing a dry heat.”

“A…what?”

Jason wished the fever ravaging his body for the last week would stop for a moment so he could have a chance to digest the information Dr. Thompkins was giving him. He was still slow and muddled, his body hurt and his brain was barely receptive enough to understand the words spoken to him, much less to find amusement in them, because it was impossible…it was...

“A dry heat,” Dr. Thompkins repeated calmly, quietly. Her whole demeanor was annoyingly calm as if he was a child in need of special treatment. “That’s what the first heat the Omega goes through is called. Think of it as the reproductive system on a dry run, last checkup to make sure it works, flushing down the pipes, sort of thing...”

“Alright...stop!” Jason hoped he looked green because that’s how he was feeling. His head was spinning. “This is total...bullshit, there’s no... reproductive system!”

There never was and there never would be! He was a freak of nature like that. He was...

“I hate to insist, but there is.” She pulled a scan to the tablet and lifted it so he could see it from his prone position, showing him an image that he belatedly recognized as his insides. “See?” She pointed at an area with the tip of a pen. ”Here. A uterus developing here and here. It’s quite small for someone your age, comparable to an adolescent omega, but I believe it will grow as your hormone levels are…”

“Stop!...stop talking!”

He almost upturned the bed in his hurry to back away from her, shoulders rising, posture as aggressive as his half-numb body could get. The machinery connected to him started to make grating noises that made him want to curl up and cover his ears, but he fought down the urge and struggled to rise. He barely managed to lift his front up on the elbows before the woman reacted—she reached out to him and touched his neck—just like Dick before…and Jason felt his body relax in the weirdest way, muscles softening without his conscious input.

“Shh, kid, calm down,’ Dr. Thompkins hummed to him, pressing on that cursed spot while she fiddled with one of the IV bags with her other hand. “Calm down, it’s not the end of the world.”

“What…are you…giving me…?” He mumbled into the pillow. He wanted to be angry—he felt he should be scared—but there was no energy left to manage it. “What…”

“It’s a mild sedative, Jason, nothing more. Your situation is still very unsure and you need to stay calm, the probability of SSD is too high to risk a relapse.”

What was she talking about?

And why did he…was Bruce around? He could tell…he _knew_...God, he was tired.

“Now, is that better?”

The fingers retreated and Jason felt his muscle control slowly returning, but was too weak to do anything about it. It felt like he was floating in a dream, that whatever was happening there wasn't real. That whatever the doctor said wasn’t real, couldn't be. He was…

“I know it’s a big thing to suddenly learn about yourself, believe me, I understand your reaction.” Leslie was speaking to him, her voice soft and caring. Was it her hand stroking his hair? “But the faster you accept it, the faster you will recover. You’re an omega, Jason, and you have to understand that it’s a good thing.”

No, it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t real.

 

* * *

 

His eyes opened up again and the room was still half-dark, the machines were still beeping and he still felt like shit. The remains of the twisted dream were slowly fading from his consciousness, but there was nothing left in their place to explain his state…

Whatever was wrong with him, well, it had to be bad if Alfred was there, standing on the side of his bed and looking terribly…worried.

“...Alfred...?” Jason gasped out. His throat was aching like fuck.

The man gave him a tired smile. “Yes, lad. You’ve given us quite a scare.”

A soft hand brushed the hair out of his eyes and Jason leaned into the gentle touch almost helplessly. It felt good.

“S’rry… d’dnmean’t to…”

“It's not your fault, please don't worry about it. Rest now. Everything will be taken care of, I will take you home.”

“...home...’kay..”

Even though usually home was a strange, useless word, something inside of his chest unfurled hearing it and grasped it tightly, quietly delighted in the idea of being taken there. Wherever it was, home seemed like a good place.

 

 

 


End file.
